Tag: the new shit

Welcome to June.

OK, we’re going to tell you the lie Lebal Drocer doesn’t want you to know. Contrary to popular belief, not a single staff writer here at the Times has yet died of an overdose of any sort. It has been one month since we updated the site; yeah, no shit, whatever, you don’t pay to read it so fuck off. The heroin advert has cobwebs in it. This is because we built a new website and are in the process of loading that fucker down with enough thought-provoking content to make your pseudo-intellectual coke dealer jealous. It has been our dirty little secret. The Elf Wax Times is still your source for all things fulfilling and true, and will continue down that path, by the will of Jesco White with Noam Chomsky’s blessing. That being said, The Elf Wax Times will continue to be the only place you’ll be able to read the dancing outlaw’s name in the same sentence as the world’s most renowned linguistics expert.

The New Shit

Dubbed project overmind, The Elf Wax Times staff writers (and other sexy people) have set out to code and construct an authentic truth-hole backed up with research, statistics, figures, news and quotes from the scum you know and love (and elected). If The Elf Wax Times has been, up to this point, a black hole in ideology, then consider project overmind the white hole, out of which new reason spawns the modern essence of thought – our most up-to-date evolution of the age-old concepts of peace, space travel, free love and the snarling nuclear war machine. We are young people, writing for young people. The Elf Wax Times makes fifty people laugh every day, and disappoints at twice that rate. Which means we, as writers, are worth exponentially more than each and every one of you, to the power of at least 5; some of you to the power of 6. To put that into perspective, our narcissism has its own Facebook page.

Now enjoy this contradictory letter from the editor

Your Elf Wax Times staff writers have not updated this festering bacteria hive for exactly one month – that much is almost as obvious as the fact you people are more concerned with Miley Cyrus’ sexting pics than what we write. Jerk off while you’re here, by all means. Just know you’re bettering the literary community as a whole simply by masturbating with that Elf Wax Times flair because with every furious pump, you’re selling up to a half dozen copies of our book. However, as you may have already suspected, there’s a good reason we didn’t update The Elf Wax Times this month. I’ll be perfectly honest with you: one of our writers gave his job to Thadeus Heathcoat who subsequently died from a fatal injection while celebrating the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico and its adverse effects on British Petroleum. Instead of heroin, our writer was injecting pure crude oil, skimmed off the surface of the water for independent study by journalists and scientists – which here at the Times are one in the same. Thadeus is known to grind up and inject stories straight into his bloodstream for writingtific research. Fortunately, every story we ever assigned him to was heroin, so he enjoyed his job and the convenience of knowing whatever we paid him to inject was nothing short of pure consciousness expansion. It is for this half-assed reason the editing staff feels compelled to accept greater than or equal to half of the blame for the death of our most beloved writer, who in the end taught us we never cared for him to begin with when two weeks passed and nobody noticed he’d gone missing.

In other news

Sherie’s Place: I’m sad to see you go. You sold Elf Wax Times staff all its bongs, pipes, screens and incense for years. Where will we buy our paraphernalia now?

A message from our sponsor:

Does it burn when you pee? Just remember: It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sting! That’s a spicy STD! You must have fucked a real slutty broad. Fuck more, for Lebal Drocer. “She’ll scream Third Degree Incorporated!”

I know some people who are passing it around to each other right now – VD of the mind. If an idea is a virus, then ignorance is a plague. Pass it on. Lebal Drocer’s got your back. No, seriously. Turn your back on us. Just for a second.